I Drink for a Reason (18 page)

O’Reilly had gotten back up and started running for the producer, a woman named Michelle. He was holding a razor-sharp copy
of
Atlas Shrugged
, which he whipped at Michelle’s neck. I checked Michelle against the wall and out of the way while hoisting myself up onto
the desk and kicking the book right as it sailed overhead. It rose up and sliced a cable, which brought a 300-pound light
crashing down. Bill, exhausted, slumped down and started to whimper. I walked over to him and knelt down. “Hey… what are you
doing?” I asked. “What is this about?” Bill started sniffling, and his sobs became deeper and harder for him to control. “I
don’t know! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m scared! I’m afraid I won’t get into Heaven. I have sinned. Oh dear sweet Jesus, forgive
me for all the pain I’ve caused. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I patted him on his good shoulder. “Hey, it’s all right.
We all get like that from time to time.”

“No. no, it’s not all right. I’m a monster. A greedy, self-absorbed monster who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about
half the time, and the other half, when I
do
know what I’m talking about, I’m lying through my teeth.” Despite some misgivings, I gave him a hug. I gave Bill O’Reilly
a hug. He thanked me and hugged me back. I could feel his hot tears soaking my sweater. “Okay, it’s okay, let it out.” He
squeezed even harder. And then he slipped a hand down the back of my pants, which had become loosened during the ruckus. “Okay,
none of that, now.” He took his middle finger and slid it down the crack of my ass, which was slick with sweat. With one fluid
motion he shoved it up to the second knuckle into my asshole. I jumped, which just made it worse.

“I love you,” he whispered through sobs. I was very confused and also in a strange place comprising both pain and pleasure.
“You need to take your finger out of my ass.” He bit my earlobe and then said, “I’ve got a present for you.” He stood up,
with his finger still in my asshole, and haltingly, with his bad arm, undid his belt buckle. His pants dropped to the ground,
revealing a pair of bloomers with a cartoon of a depressed duck sitting slumped over at a desk, saying, “I’m so happy I could
just shit!” He wiggled his way out of the bloomers, revealing a gnarled but adorable penis, no bigger than half of a ladybug.
Even from the ground five feet away I could smell what seemed to be a combination of raw sewage, scallions, and menthol. He
waggled his tortured cock over my face and grinning said, “Don’t worry… it gets slightly bigger.” This was starting to get
crazy. As I punched Bill O’Reilly in the nutsack and spat on his nub in disgust, the FOX security force finally got there.
I was immediately relieved and gladly allowed them to force me up and handcuff me and drag me back to the green room where
Neil Cavuto was getting audited by a pilled-up Greta Van Susteren. I can’t say it was the greatest day of my life, but hey,
how often do you get to punch Bill O’Reilly in the nuts? Even if only in a story, it’s still very, very satisfying.

L
ISTEN
, I
LOVE GAMES JUST AS MUCH AS THE NEXT FELLA
,
BUT
I, like you, tend to get a little apprehensive when one of my friends decides to hold “game night” at his or her (or
its
—not leaving you out, hermaphrodites!!) apartment. “Yay! We’re gonna order pizza, y’all! And Brian is gonna bring his DVD
of that duck getting shot by that kid on the lake!! You HAVE TO see it! It is BEYOND fucked up!!” If you are not logged into
Evite, then please do so now.

Game nights usually start off a little slow and often a little awkward, then you kinda get into it for a bit, and then, once
the beer has run out and talk turns to making a liquor store run, it peters out and you just want to take one more hit for
the road and leave. Right? Of course I’m right! I’m talking to me! My personal favorites are Scattergories, Celebrity, Apples
to Apples, shit like that. I guess because there’s hyper, time-sensitive arguing that goes along with them. But… But…

But what if I told you there’s a parlor game that blows those games away? This game makes those games feel about as exciting
as attending a day-long seminar on something as mundane as how to paste photos into a scrapbook and what color crepe paper
you should use to border said photos (by the way, the photo is of you and your family standing in front of Nebraska’s largest
potato salad). I, right here and now, am guaranteeing you a fun, emotional, exhaustingly good time. NO! Great time! Yes. Here
it is:

And believe me, I know it sounds like the corniest Christian-camp-organized fun you could imagine, but seriously, please trust
me; you will instantly become addicted to it, guaranteed. The game is called “Mafia,” and a Russian psychologist developed
it in the early ’70s. Here’s the deal: you get a minimum of twelve players (you can play with up to eighteen) and you sit
in a circle. I know, I know, sitting in a circle is already pushing up the queer quotient, but bear with me. Everyone in the
circle is part of the Village. One person acts as the “Mayor” who basically runs the show. I suggest making a male the Mayor
as men are smarter at this kind of thing, and there’s no danger of getting menstrual blood all over everything (
Ed. note—
a White male would be even better, no?). The Mayor then has the Village “go to sleep,” which entails simply everyone closing
their eyes and putting their heads down. The Mayor will then walk around the circle and, without making a sound, tap three
people on the head. These people are now the “Mafia.” The Mayor will ask the Mafia to QUIETLY open their eyes and acknowledge
each other.
^*
When this is done, the Mayor (again, it’s important to have a man do this because a woman will start to silently think about
everyone’s shoes and get distracted) will have the Mafia close their eyes again and will then walk around the room, this time
tapping one person, announcing “You are Detective #1.” Then the Mayor will walk around some more and tap one last person,
announcing, “You are Detective #2.” The Detectives do not have to open their eyes. For reasons I will explain later, they
do not want to reveal themselves.

Okay, now the hijinks begin. Basically the goal is simply this: the Village needs to kill off the Mafia before the Mafia kills
off the Village. There are two rounds consisting of “day” and “night.” At nighttime the Mayor (after announcing “It’s nighttime;
Village go to sleep”) will have everyone close their eyes, then the Mayor (I can’t stress how serious I am about making the
mayor a guy, because at this point a woman will start to bitch about something she read in
Us Weekly
and take everyone out of the game) will have JUST the Mafia wake up and ask them to SILENTLY choose one member of the Village
to kill. The Mafia quietly does this and, once the Mayor confirms the victim, close their eyes again. Now the Mayor will ask
Detective #1 to wake up. The Detective is allowed to pick one person and ask the Mayor (again in silence) if he or she is
in the Mafia. The Mayor either shakes or nods his head, tells the Detective to go back to sleep, and then awakens the other
Detective. This action takes place each round until the Detectives are killed off.
^*
More on this later, but right now it’s time for the second stage—“Morning.” The Mayor will now say, “Village, wake up; its
morning,” and everyone opens their eyes and lifts their head. Those new to the game that have been picked to be in the Mafia
usually make a big show of “waking up”—it’s a pretty good sign of guilt, trust me. Now for the fun part. After a brief pause,
the Mayor continues, “Village, wake up; its morning… Brian, you’re dead.”

Oh, shit!! Now Brian (and all “dead” people) may not say a fucking word. They have to get up and out of the circle immediately
without any of that, “Oh man I TOLD you it wasn’t me! It’s April! I’m telling you!” None of that. It is the Mayor’s job to
strictly enforce this rule, because some stupid people inadvertently give shit away as they’re leaving. Brian will now stand
outside of the circle and observe the mechanics of your friends lying to your face. This becomes, second to none, the best
part of participating, once the game is moving along and the paranoia starts seeping into the room like so much Zyklon B.
Now things start to kick in as the Village all talk amongst themselves, trying to suss out who’s in the Mafia. Accusations
are flung far and wide. Sometimes with some expertise and sometimes its just a bunch of “I don’t know, you just seem suspicious
the way you’re sitting there all un-suspicious-like” bullshit. The Mayor lets the Village prod and discuss for a few minutes
and, then, based on the Mayor’s discretion, will step back into the circle and call the Village to order.

Now it’s time for people to make formal accusations as to whom they think is in the Mafia. If someone seconds someone’s accusation,
then the accusers explain why the accusation has been made. Then the accused is allowed to defend themselves. Usually there
are two to four people accused per round. Then, when everyone is satisfied that they’ve had their say, a vote is taken. You
only get to vote once each round, and you can’t change your vote unless there is a revote. The person (let’s call him Jaleel)
with the most votes is killed. Again, they have to leave immediately and can’t say ANYTHING! They can’t do that half-mumbly
“This is bullshit. I know Amy’s in the Mafia, I’m telling’ you. You guys fucked up.” The Mayor will then turn to the Village
and say, “Jaleel was… [pause for nail-biting, hanging on the edge of your seat, dramatic effect . . . ] NOT in the Mafia (or
IS, if that’s the case). Also, if Jaleel was a Detective (
Ed. note
—a BLACK Detective?!), the Mayor will note this as well. Now the shit starts to get weird. The Mayor should immediately have
the Village go back to sleep. Sometimes you have to yell at the top of your lungs, “Village, it’s nighttime! Go to sleep.
Go to fucking sleep, for Christ’s sake! Judy, this means you. Judy, shut the fuck up! Now, Mafia, open your eyes and choose
somebody to kill.” Well, this goes on and on until either the Mafia kills off the entire Village or the Village kills off
the Mafia. As you can imagine, it gets really intense toward the end, especially if out of five or four players left, two
or three Mafia remain among them. You get to see people pleading their innocence as if they were hostages. Husbands and wives
will turn on each other and lie to each other’s faces with an earnestness and stoicism worthy of Patrick Henry.

The real beauty of the game comes when you’re playing your third or fourth consecutive game (each game lasts anywhere from
half an hour to forty-five minutes, give or take) and you’ve had an opportunity from the sidelines to watch how slick or not
so slick your friends who are secretly in the Mafia are.

Truly the best moment in the game (outside of being alive and on the winning team at the end) is, after you’ve been killed
and have taken your place outside the circle, and your anger has subsided and you’ve gone to the kitchen with the other dead
people milling about pleading your case, and you’ve guessed incorrectly as to who’s in the Mafia and then the Mayor says,
“It’s nighttime, Village; go to sleep… Mafia, wake up and pick somebody to kill.” And you watch as the people you weren’t
even close to guessing slowly and quietly raise their heads and pick off one more Villager. “I can’t believe its Tonya and
Patrick and Leslie?! Those fucking assholes! Can you believe that line of shit she was feeding everybody about being too tired
to be in the Mafia? FUCK! I can’t wait to play again!”

I
DON’T HAVE CHILDREN
,
AT LEAST NONE THAT
I
KNOW ABOUT
. H
A
ha! High-five me! (And by “know about” I mean that have survived.) But I imagine someday that I will. And I suppose that
I will face the same difficult moral challenges that all parents face. And I suppose, too, that I will find those challenges,
mistakenly, to be unique to my generation. What life lessons will I teach them? What lessons should be better left to television
to teach? Where do I draw the line at individual freedoms? What little white lies will I tell about my past, and what dirty
truths will I reveal? Should I leave the room when their generation’s equivalent of
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
comes on TV? Or should I act as an addendum to the show and explain that if you want to attain a respectable level of celebrity
in our culture, then there is no better, easier, faster way than to be videotaped sucking cock like a champ.

“Honey, I know you’re only thirteen, and you’re going through a lot of changes, and since your mom chose to leave us after
learning how to drive, I have had to be both a mother and father to you. As well as a great-aunt, which I will explain when
you’re older, but come here, sit down. I wanna talk about something.

“Honey, I want you to know how proud of you I am, and how much I believe in you. And I know how much you’re looking forward
to going to American Idol Camp this year and learning to yell that one song from
Dreamgirls
, but if you really want to be a ‘superstar’ and live the American superstar dream of having people with low self-esteem and
a marked lack of creativity wait on you hand and foot regardless of your treatment of them, eventually leading you to own
a makeup line exclusively for puppies and angels, then you really need to abandon any kind of self-respect that I’ve hopefully
instilled in you and get down to that silly Hollywood restaurant that Ashton Kutcher, Jeremy Piven, Sienna Miller, and the
Church of Scientology own (it’s called Prey, I think?) and get busy with the right people, if you know what I mean. Here,
I want you to take this. This is a copy of
The Best of the Pseudo-Celebrity Sex Tapes, Vol. III.
Study it. Imitate it, and practice it. And sweetheart? Be mindful of the teeth.”